


Woman, 1957-8

by NotManTheLessButNatureMore



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Drabble, Gen, art trip you guyzzzz, nick and ilsa are the best friends a strike could ask for, strike recovering from losing his leg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-09 05:54:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16444115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotManTheLessButNatureMore/pseuds/NotManTheLessButNatureMore
Summary: Ilsa's long-planned trip to the Tate Britain involves Nick losing Strike somewhere between Turner and Chatterton and Strike realising something.





	Woman, 1957-8

**Author's Note:**

> I know, I know. I should have the epilogue for 'A Man of Two Souls' done by now but I've been lazy and busy and this just flowed out this evening. I hope you enjoy.

“What do you mean you lost him?”

 

“I didn’t lose him, he’s just not where I left him.”

“That’s the definition of losing someone Nick.”

 

“Is not.”

 

“Is t…” Ilsa stopped herself and scowled at Nick as he smirked.

 

The light in the museum had transitioned from natural to artificial without them noticing and it was now an hour before closing on a cold winter’s day. A soft hush, only broken by distant cries of tired children and the shutter of cameras, had spread through the Tate Britain as the evening approached and the tourists fled. Ilsa had marked the day on their calendar weeks ago. When she first moved to London she had made it her mission to visit every cultural institution she could but as work picked up and the rose tinted glasses lifted somewhat she found herself visiting the places that were special to her less and less. This was to change however as she’d allocated at least two weekends a month for her and Nick to swap the TV and a takeaway for something a bit more educational. That was the reason they were currently standing in the Sackler Octagon looking like two parents who had lost their child somewhere between Turner and Chatterton.

 

“Well where did he go?”

 

“I don’t know, I left him sitting in that corridor with the blobby family while I went to find the lift and when I came back he was gone.”

 

Nick had mentioned their little trip to Strike over the phone last week, not expecting him to comment on it let alone express an interest, but to his surprise he’d asked if he could come along. It wasn’t entirely willingly, as Nick had found out later, it was more of a way to escape Charlotte for the day. He hadn’t voiced his apprehensions to his friends but he didn’t feel comfortable yet navigating the busy streets of London and the packed tube alone on his crutches so Nick, Ilsa and Shanker had been his chauffeurs on the days he made his escapes.

 

They had picked him up late in the morning but he’d hardly uttered a word in the car and seemed only vaguely interested in Nick’s footie chatter. His facial hair now resembled that of a lumberjacks and the dark circles under his eyes seemed more deeply purple. The past few months had been full of ups and downs but Ilsa felt her heart drop a little more as she watched him crutch from bench to bench hardly taking any notice of the paintings on display and instead holding eye contact for an uncomfortable amount of time with those that glanced at his empty trouser leg. It was something she’d noticed him doing since he’d left the rehab clinic, as if it was a way for him to assert power over those that acknowledged his weakest part.

 

Ilsa herself had started categorising the kind of stares he would receive. There were curious children, those who hadn’t seen an amputee in real life before, the ignorant and the nosy as well as those who Ilsa could swear saw Strike as a walking symbol of the Iraq and Afghanistan wars. One who had come home only partly wrapped in the Union Jack.

 

“Blobby family? Is that the technical term?” Ilsa arched her eyebrow and had a premonition of Nick losing their future children at a supermarket. _Please God, let him never take them to Westfield_ , she thought to herself. Nick pulled a crumpled orange map from his back pocket and pointed to the Henry Moore display just off the main atrium they were standing in.

 

They made their way into the smaller corridor that housed Henry Moore’s war drawings and ‘family’ sculpture series but their was no sign of Cormoran. Ilsa looked down the length of the corridor and rolled her eyes.

 

“You pillock, how did they ever let you graduate medical school?”

 

“What?”

 

Ilsa pointed to the black marble doors that hid the lift just a few feet from where they were standing. Nick’s face softened and he looked sheepish.

 

“Oggy didn’t notice it either.”

 

“He has a lot on his mind, what’s your excuse?”

 

“Man U might top the table.”

 

Ilsa took a slow deep breath and quickly reminded herself of all the things she loved about her husband.

 

“You go downstairs and look in the cafe in case he spotted the lift and I’ll look around here.”

 

“No way, I’ll just end up lost in a maze of art from the 1800s and you’ll never find me again. I’ll have to eat a Rembrandt just to survive the night.”

 

“You have the map Nick.”

 

“Which is why I should lead the search party up here.”

 

“You’re ridiculous. In fact the pair of you are, why didn’t Corm just stay where he was.”

 

“Hopefully he didn’t wander into some anti-war exhibition.”

 

“I checked before we came, there isn’t any. The only room that might be a bit dodgy is the 1940s one.” Ilsa replied. Nick looked across at her with affection.

 

They walked to the bottom of the hallway and turned into the main Henry Moore room. The sculptures were imposing but the room still had a sense of space, a filled emptiness. Looking past the dark mass reminiscent of a cliff face that drew their eyes upon entering the room, Ilsa looked past the white sprawl of limbs in the centre of the room and grabbed Nick’s wrist.

 

Cormoran was alone in the room, standing in front of a large bronze sculpture that was a subdued shade of green. It had a long neck that led to an abstract form of the female figure but what caught Ilsa’s eye was its lower half. The left leg was crossed sideways and seemed to rest across the right leg’s knee before melting into it and becoming conjoined. It was the right leg that had Cormoran’s attention. It was gone from below the knee, _just like you_ , Ilsa thought to herself. His knuckles were white where he was gripping his crutches and he was shifting ever so slightly from side to side to keep his balance. As Nick and Ilsa moved closer they saw that his features were soft, his mouth open slightly and his shoulders slumped.

 

“Corm?” Ilsa said quietly.

 

He turned his head and Ilsa smiled. His eyes were bright, clear and he looked right at them, the far away look that they had all become familiar with was nowhere to be seen.

 

“There’s scars all over it.”

 

Ilsa stopped herself from saying ‘but it’s still beautiful’, knowing that it would only elicit exaggerated eye rolls from Nick and Corm.

 

“Cause of how it’s made I guess.” Nick surmised as he stepped around to Strike’s other side so that he was flanked by his two friends. Strike looked back at the sculpture and furrowed his brows. Ilsa moved to put her hand on his back but before she could he squared his shoulders and stood to his full height.

 

“Let’s go have a cup of overpriced tea. And some cake, I’m starving.” He said as he turned and crutched his way back towards the door they had entered. Nick grabbed Ilsa’s hand and gave it a squeeze.

 

“Nick’s paying.” Strike called over his shoulder.

 

“What!? Oggy wait.”

**Author's Note:**

> The sculpture in question is Henry Moore's Woman 1957-8, as per the title, and the Tate Britain is perhaps my favourite place in London. There's just something really special about it and the Henry Moore room is perhaps my favourite room in the world (I guess it should be a shared favourite with my bedroom). I spent the day there today, perhaps the last time for a while as I move back to Dublin in a week, and I've always thought of Strike when I see that sculpture so today was the day that I wrote a little something. I hope you enjoyed it :)


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